On November 19 my genetic clock rang out. I received tons of cheerful Facebook messages, but, really, how can anyone be so cheery about becoming an official medicare card carrying old person, complete with chin wrinkles. It's just me and Joanie right now, but on December 4, Holly joins us....then the rest of our class of '65 falls in line.
I know I should welcome this next stage of my life, but that warm and fuzzy mantle of grandma just doesn't bring contentment. From what I've witnessed, this next stage of life -- the golden years -- doesn't live up to those sweet annuity advertisements. I want to eat like I want, but can't without adding inches to my waist. I want to run three miles without getting winded and I don't want my shoulders to feel like they are being pulled out of their sockets every time I pull a pillow around my head. But, most of all, I want elders to look up to, but my elders are dead and people without wrinkles ask me for advice. Who are we kidding here?
But hope is not lost. I got an orgasmic thrill when we bought a new vacuum cleaner last Sunday. It's self-propelled.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Season's end
The first two hours were easy. As light dawned, it was clear that there would be no sailing as we planned. We had to stow ourselves inside for the day. The rain beat on the deck and whipped around around the rigging. The heating kept us from freezing. I woke in the predawn light, threw on all the salon lights, brewed up some tea and read the last of the New Yorker and Sail magazines that had been laying about the boat since the beginning of the season.
By 8:00 I was restless. Ate come cereal then turned to do a bit of internet surfing, write a blog, do some email or read my pick up my Kindle to continue reading my book. But alas, I hadn't brought the laptop or the IPAD or the Kindle. The SIRUS radio brought filled the salon with smooth jazz. I was bored, but not crazy yet.
9:40. I dug out some old cross word puzzles and finished them off by the time John rose and tramped to the head with his cell phone in hand. I couldn't read the paper pages anymore. My sight became fuzzy as I stared at the pages. Am I getting cataracts? I put the day old New York Times down and fell into a mid-morning nap right where I sat.
11:40. Woke to 20 knots gusts knocking the boat around the slip. No harm. Our lines held well. I paced. "I can't stand listening to NPR anymore. I can't do our financial planning, pay bills, shop, write a blog or read my book. I'm going up to West Marine for some bilge cleaner." Bundled in winter foul weather gear, I left the warmth of Forte Vento.
1:00. We clean the bilge. Laying face down on the salon floor, I push rags into the bilge to soak up dirty water and oily residue. John shakes his head, but assists.
2:00. We play 500 rummy. John wins twice. The wild mushroom soup I cooked up from dried mushrooms, but my seasoning was off. It was too, too peppery. However, I rescued the mushrooms, sauteed them in butter and made a toasted cheese and mushroom sandwich with a week old bun. All I had to do was pick off the mold.
4:00. John wanted soup. He was not feeling well. Braving the elements, tromped down the dock again to gather some chicken broth just as the snow started. Errie. It clings to the dock. I almost slip off dock as I made my way back to the boat. Birds flocked all over the marina, perching on rigging. It could have been a scene right out Hitchcock's "The Birds".
9:00. We played more cards -- I won this time. It's all boring so we pulled out the Chapman's and the boat specs to review our winterization work for Sunday.
Sunday am. Sun is bright. Sky blue. Saturday never happened. It must have been a bad dream.
By 8:00 I was restless. Ate come cereal then turned to do a bit of internet surfing, write a blog, do some email or read my pick up my Kindle to continue reading my book. But alas, I hadn't brought the laptop or the IPAD or the Kindle. The SIRUS radio brought filled the salon with smooth jazz. I was bored, but not crazy yet.
9:40. I dug out some old cross word puzzles and finished them off by the time John rose and tramped to the head with his cell phone in hand. I couldn't read the paper pages anymore. My sight became fuzzy as I stared at the pages. Am I getting cataracts? I put the day old New York Times down and fell into a mid-morning nap right where I sat.
11:40. Woke to 20 knots gusts knocking the boat around the slip. No harm. Our lines held well. I paced. "I can't stand listening to NPR anymore. I can't do our financial planning, pay bills, shop, write a blog or read my book. I'm going up to West Marine for some bilge cleaner." Bundled in winter foul weather gear, I left the warmth of Forte Vento.
1:00. We clean the bilge. Laying face down on the salon floor, I push rags into the bilge to soak up dirty water and oily residue. John shakes his head, but assists.
2:00. We play 500 rummy. John wins twice. The wild mushroom soup I cooked up from dried mushrooms, but my seasoning was off. It was too, too peppery. However, I rescued the mushrooms, sauteed them in butter and made a toasted cheese and mushroom sandwich with a week old bun. All I had to do was pick off the mold.
4:00. John wanted soup. He was not feeling well. Braving the elements, tromped down the dock again to gather some chicken broth just as the snow started. Errie. It clings to the dock. I almost slip off dock as I made my way back to the boat. Birds flocked all over the marina, perching on rigging. It could have been a scene right out Hitchcock's "The Birds".
9:00. We played more cards -- I won this time. It's all boring so we pulled out the Chapman's and the boat specs to review our winterization work for Sunday.
Sunday am. Sun is bright. Sky blue. Saturday never happened. It must have been a bad dream.
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